Forgotten the Real Thing
by Pyroclast17
Summary: Post Reichenbach. John gradually loses touch with both reality and his own memories, so he creates his own from scratch- the perfect world, but one he doesn't want.
1. Chapter 1

"Look, please there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be... Dead." I could feel myself breaking up. Nope. Wasn't going to happen. "Would you do that, just for me, just..."

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could," I spat defiantly. I think I saw him smile then, and suddenly falter completely. He looked broken. A shade, not himself.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." I heard him reign in his emotions with a sniff. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"Stop it, stop this..." My words trailed off. My eyesight fogged and my breath hitched. I had a sudden desperate urge to run away, to destroy my sorrows in endless quantities of strong alcohol and try to forget all of this- his dusted grey skin, hands folded on his stomach, his chest still.

With a sting of horror, I realised I couldn't wholly remember his face properly. He was obscured by some misted screen, within my grasp but ethereal and without substance. As the seconds moved on, Sherlock's presence in my head dissipated, and he left me standing on the grass, feeling emptier than a dead man.

That night I allowed myself some tears. I sat in my chair, suddenly alone in the room that had once felt so alive. Even in Sherlock's silent days, it had been warm there. Now, no matter how high the radiators were set, I simply couldn't escape the coldness and darkness that pressed in on all sides. My sadness stung my cheeks like acid rain.

oOoOoOo

"Morning, John."

"Sleep well?"

"Quite." He lumbered into the kitchen, picking up the newspaper as he passed the coffee table. "The wind was awful last night though, I couldn't think straight for at least two hours."

I set down my teacup and frowned at him questioningly.

"Have you been trying to solve cases in your sleep or something?"

"Of course not. It's how I shut down. " He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his blue silk dressing down, and began rummaging around for something to eat. He hadn't eaten for at least two days straight, by my count. Therefore I couldn't question his uncharacteristic behaviour.

Finding nothing of interest in the cupboards (the fridge was out of bounds-contaminated), the detective tossed some sliced bread onto a baking sheet and set the oven to preheat.

"What are you doing?" I sleepily lifted myself from my seat and went to observe his work more closely.

"I'm making toast," he answered matter-of-factly.

"That's what the toaster is for."

"The toaster's boring."

I yawned widely. It was too early to argue. I focussed instead on the newspaper in his pocket.

"Sherlock, that paper's from last week."

"Ah. Really?" He stopped everything momentarily to snatch it from his robe, and fling it over his shoulder like a bride throws a bouquet. I watched it as it smacked into the opposite press and sank sadly to the floor.

"Right... Poor me some more tea if you're making it, will you?" I slumped back into my chair. He soon arrived over with the scalding liquid in one of Mrs Hudson's gaudy teapots and refilled my cup.

"To your liking?"

I gave him a thumbs up and he walked back to the kitchen to tidy up.

When I brought the cup to my lips it was empty. The dregs from my last fill seemed to frown at me.

"Sherlock, you haven't-"

Ah. Right. Not good.

There was nobody in the house but me, of course. The newspaper lay dejected on the coffee table by my laptop and unpaid bills. There was no washing up of any baking tray to be done.

I sank backwards and yawned again. It really was too early for this.


	2. Chapter 2

"We've got a double murder on our hands, John. We need your help, if you're willing."

Lestrade stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly between feet. Was he uncertain of me now? Did he think I was unstable just because my friend died?

Well, he was probably right.

Sherlock looked out from the kitchen and took in the DI's appearance.

"Divorce is going through the final stages, I see. Hasn't slept properly in weeks. Hasn't seen the kids since last Wednesday." I glanced in his direction and shook my head at his lack of tact. Greg turned from me to the direction I faced, and his brow creased ever so slightly.

"Will you come?"

I scrubbed my face in my palm. "Let me get some things, I'll be down in a minute."

I waited until I heard the door shut to regard Sherlock properly. "Why are you here?"

His eyes seemed to twinkle, and I caught a twitch on his lips. "You want me to be here. Does it matter?"

"I have a feeling it does, yeah." I picked up my coat with heavy hands, and checked my pocket for my phone. "Are you a ghost?"

"Oh, don't be stupid John, ghosts don't exist."

"Then how do I explain you?" I made for the stairs, and he followed with his hands in his pockets. Somehow he was wearing that massive coat again.

"You know, I'm not sure."

I stopped and turned to him. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

His eyes narrowed. "You should stop talking before you hurt yourself."

"Charming. Let's go."

It wasn't a particularly complicated case; I could have figured it out myself if I'm honest. But it was nice to hear him blabber on about gravel and condensation and God knows what else. It didn't even last ten minutes, but it was worth the drive to see my friend in his element.

Obviously having to relay it to the others was awkward in the extreme. They looked at me like I had proclaimed myself to be the Second Coming of Christ.

Really though, what made it worthwhile in the end was a brief moment of humanity. Lestrade picked a cigarette and lighter from his pocket when all was done, and scrutinized the view. An ordinary house, very similar to the one which he used to call home. A reminder of his failures. Sherlock made for him as I flagged down a cab, and I would have missed it had I not heard Greg's heavy sigh. Sherlock's hand extended a hand to rub the Inspector's shoulder, sympathy written in his features for all to see.

Well, by all, I mean me.

Lestrade didn't notice the pressure through his coat. We left him standing forlorn at the roadside, because it wasn't me he needed now. He needed somebody unbroken. He needed an ambiguous man in a long coat and tight suit.

Sherlock stared out the cab window for the entire journey and said nothing.

* * *

**WHOA. I actually continued! That is really thanks to photo100. I would be leaving this to the short two-chapter fic it originally was otherwise. **

**Double upload today because I went on a writing frenzy while trying to study over the last three days. I hope that makes up for the long wait. **

**Please review, because I like to know that people actually read this XD Love you guys, le kisses **


	3. Chapter 3

I'm not mad. It's just that the world is spinning out of control, while I'm standing still, waiting for it all to start making sense again.

It's been nine months since the world made sense. And people have begun to notice that I can't keep up with the spinning any more.

Standing still means I can look Sherlock in the face and not be afraid that I'll see blood and bruising. Instead, he smiles. He makes me laugh. He reminds me of the good times we had, that we are still having, really. Because Sherlock never left. He simply stood still when I did.

His presence was revealed about seven months after the, um, fall. Little moments spent wondering about domesticity and the fruit of different plants and the nature of bees. Silly things. He makes tea, still. I try hard to drink it. But the emptiness of it all is what burns my tongue when the fantasy fades.

I try not to get angry. I don't want to blame him for this. How could this be his fault anyway? This is my mind, after all, not Sherlock's cerebral play dough. But I know that I'm not insane. So with whom does the blame lie?

I like to think it's Mycroft. Sherlock gets a kick out of that. Any chance to diss the man and he's riding a whirlwind of sarcasm and insults.

But Mycroft didn't push my best friend off the roof of St Bart's, so to my dismay, I fall back on blaming Sherlock. Cursing him and the day we met, yelling in his face that he was a bastard and a stain on humanity.

He looks at the ground and says sorry. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder and sets me down in my chair, as he picks up his violin and pulls a few faded notes from the strings. The tunes are like the final resonance of echoes. I don't think I ever hear them as they should be. The songs are tired now.

And the next day he is walking over the coffee table and ranting about cases and experiments and stupidity, and suddenly my world seems to have started moving again, and everything is perfect. Sherlock is here, and nothing could be better.

And then he makes tea, and the cycle starts again. I realise that my world does not extend out the doors of 221B. I have not found my place in the intricate twirling dance of the rest of mankind. I'm the awkward kid at a school disco who sticks to the wall, and Sherlock is the one who sits across the room. We exchange pained glances every now and then.

Just last week, he drew attention to it.

"This isn't me."

"Hm?"

He stood by the window, gazing out at the urban landscape that had embedded itself into his very soul.

"I'm not like this. You've got me wrong."

I closed the book I was trying to read.

"You're Sherlock. You're exactly how I remember you."

"Your memory is flawed." He frowned at his watery reflection. "You made me better. You made me good."

"You _are_ good."

"You're wrong." He turned to face me, worry creeping over his brow. "This is wrong, John. You need to stop."

I got up to stand with him, pawing at the papers on my desk for support. Leg was at me again.

"Why? I don't want anything else."

"Exactly." His palm cupped my cheek and his eyes grew kinder. "You've made me into what you wanted all along. That isn't fair on either of us."

I closed my eyes and leaned into his comforting touch. "No, it's not fair. Nothing is fair anymore."

"It's come to this, John. You have to move on. I would not touch you so tenderly. You know that."

"Do I?"

"I am sure of it." His hand vanished, no trace of it ever having been there apart from the tingling of my skin. I looked into his face, and with a clench in my stomach I saw his expression change. Hard instead of soft; robotic and calculating. A shock to my system. I didn't know Sherlock anymore.

"This is what happens, John. To a mind stuck in stasis. Memories stagnate. Attachments to your own creations tighten. You have left the world, John Watson."

"At least I left it with you."

His eyes widened and he turned away. He hasn't mentioned it since.

oOoOoOoOo

The lights. The beeping. The other person in the room. I had woken up. How did I fall asleep?

I heard a woman calling. Apparently my awakening was significant. I couldn't tell. The blur in my vision wouldn't go away. I blinked furiously to relieve myself from the lack of clarity.

A man came into view. The colours of his skin and the green he wore made him distinguishable from the ceiling and the lights. He was talking. Was he? Still unclear. Dopey. Drugs? Possibly. Asphyxiation? Possibly. Coma?

Coma.

Ah.

"My Holmes, can you hear me?"

Ah, finally an understandable pattern of vowels and consonants.

Well, understandable was not quite the word.

"Are you asking me?"

The nurse glanced over the side of the bed, probably to somebody else in the room, frowning. He didn't want to hear that.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. You just woke up from a coma. It's good to see you."

"Holmes."

He nodded uncertainly. "Yes... Sherlock Holmes."

"That is... My name."

"... Yes."

It certainly sounded right, but...

"I see. Um... I think I may be suffering from memory loss."

He smiled.

"Everything is going to be fine, Sherlock."

_Lies_.

* * *

**DON DON DOOOOOON**

**And here's the next update! **

**I should probably point out at this stage that this fic isn't true Johnlock or anything, even though I ship the shit out of that. More sort of... Intentional fluffy bromance. You can read it as pre-slash if you want to. But I should warn you that it won't all be very _nice _pre-slash. **

**As always, you have my love.**


	4. Chapter 4

"I've got a date tonight. I think... I think this might be the one Sherlock, she's… Aw, she's great. Really, really great."

Sherlock's tune slowed and quietened.

"What's her name?"

"Mary."

There was a tiny uplift to his lips and he turned away from me, the music heightening again.

"Good luck, then, my dear Watson."

oOoOoOoOo

As the months went on, my visits to Ella became less frequent. I would talk less and less about Sherlock and those horrible events, and instead reflect on my everyday goings-on. That room started to seem less chilly as time went by.

"How are things going with Mary?"

A smile spread across my face at the mere thought of her. "Six months. She's marvellous, very supportive. We're doing great."

"That's wonderful to hear. In what ways is she supportive?"

"Oh well you know she..." My smile fell somewhat and I drew in a breath. "She's kind when I'm down, you know, the usual stuff..."

Ella regarded me with a questioning gaze. "And how does she handle the bad days?"

I scratched the back of my neck. It had been bothering me for weeks. It felt like a stress rash. Wonderful.

"She- I mean, we don't really... She makes tea. And we watch telly. It's comforting."

"I see."

What did she expect? Mary didn't know about those days. Those were days spent shut in 221B wrapped in blankets, flinching at every outside noise and consuming terrible quantities of tea and often whiskey. I would listen to the distant melodies of happy days on a violin long since packed away, bask in the warmth of a body that rotted in a cemetery, allow a deep and hypnotising voice pull me into a fantasy that I never wanted to leave.

How could I let Mary access that part of me? Ella was naive. Stupid like the rest of the world. And, and- Ella didn't even know the extent of what I was going through.

True, I hadn't told her. But if I did, she would likely make it her mission to rid me of these dreams "for my own good".

"I'm doing fine."

With that I up and left. The cold had crept back inside.

_I am never coming back here again. _

oOoOoOoOo

"Woo hoo!" A sharp rap on the door drew me from the kitchen where I was preparing breakfast. Mrs Hudson briskly came in and started shuffling through my things, tutting at the skull on the mantelpiece and reefing through papers on the coffee table. Some things never changed.

"John dear, I've cancelled the newspaper subscription, you never collect them anymore. Oh! Look at the state of my couch, you've got coffee stains all over it, shame on you John Watson!"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson. Won't happen again."

Her hands stopped pulling all of a sudden. They glided over a sheet under a pile of others near my unused laptop and backed up to the couch with it gripped in her fingers.

"Oh never mind dear. It's been a hard few months, we all make mistakes..."

"Mrs Hudson?" I sat down beside her and pulled the photograph from of her frail fingers.

There was me, standing in the office of Scotland Yard with a bored expression, beside Lestrade who was lounging at his desk with his arms folded. The left of the picture was blocked by the sharp features of a keen-looking man, mahogany curls abound, eyes piercing like a lightning strike. A test of a camera, perhaps. An unashamed selfie.

"Oh, Sherlock. I miss that boy every day. Even his horrible experiments. And the thumbs- who would miss body parts in the fridge?!"

This- this was not Sherlock! Sherlock looked nothing like this! Sherlock was... Was...

_I've lost my mind._

* * *

**Exams be finished! (For over a week cough cough.)**

**The plot bunny has attacked me. I figured the plot I had mapped out first was a tad too predictable so I'm spicing it up. Lots. **

**Why do I do this? _Because I love you. _And you know, reviews are nice. If you review, I shall serenade you. I shall shower you with affection and general awesomeness. **

**Anyway, it's a tad bit late, so I shall be off for the sleepytimes. Live long and prosper, my brethren. **


	5. Chapter 5

The Diogenes Club was ripe with the stink of old money and expensive tobacco. Newspapers were rustling and ice clinked in glass tumblers that held liquid amber. Mycroft wasn't present. It was me, sitting quietly, surrounded by well-to-do men I didn't know. Fantastic.

The place is supposedly meant to inspire great thought and important opinion forming, but sitting in my overstuffed chair, I was struck only by blankness with fleeting streaks of incomprehensible colours. No wondrous inspiration, just frustration. The fire, slowly breaking down wood pieces to black splinters, danced and spun in the same sporadic manner as my tattered memory.

"Sherlock. I see you haven't touched your drink." Mycroft arrived at precisely a sixteen minutes past seven in the evening, rudely calling for my attention from across the room while he pocketed his phone. "I thought you liked brandy. The expensive stuff in particular." He strolled over and took the glass, sniffing its contents, and replacing it with an expression of scepticism.

"I spoke to Doctor Phillips this afternoon. She assured me that the tests showed your brain displaying no abnormalities."

I grunted in response. My focus was on a single reverberating thought, and I couldn't have distractions as I tried to make sense of it.

"Father bought me a goldfish when I was five years old."

Mycroft shot me a look with raised eyebrows and sat opposite me. "He did. He did indeed."

"I cared for it for months. Diligently. But then one day I... I took it out of its tank. I wanted to see how long it would take for it to die in the air." I trembled at the image. "_Why_ did I watch it die, Mycroft?"

His face was unreadable. Perhaps that memory was painful for him too?

"Sherlock... Try to be open-minded and remember that these things happened a very long time ago. Some things are perhaps best left unremembered."

"Do not leave me to pick through your ambiguity Mycroft, I've got enough of that in my own head already."

He tapped the side of his armchair and looked me over, eventually sighing in defeat.

"I have always believed you killed the fish because Father passed away that month. You were young, and your coping techniques were somewhat... Unconventional. "

"Father is dead?"

Mycroft nodded solemnly. My hands crept under my chin and joined at a peak, apparently a reflex when my thoughts sprung to life. This was a game of chasing, and I now had a good idea of how horrible a game it would be.

_My father is dead. That... Hurts. How strange._

oOoOoOoOo

Donovan said that Sherlock was a freak.

Lestrade mentioned that Sherlock probably wouldn't stand for me going out with Mary again, let alone meeting the guys in the pub.

Mrs Hudson gave out about the bullet holes in the wall.

Mary told me she had got the impression that He was "a bit of an ass."

It just didn't add up. Sherlock was... _Is_ perfect. He's liveliness and excitement and calm and the tune in your head before you sleep. He is how time passes when you're happy, and how sugar dissolves into your evening tea. Sherlock Holmes is the progression of my life. He's wonderful.

Isn't he?

oOoOoOoOo

Sherlock hovered behind me while I set the kettle to boil. I could hear him fidgeting with thumbtacks at the kitchen table, then brushing crumbs off the counter. Apparently it wasn't a day for much activity. The first thumps of boiling water began, and I turned to my friend with a deep breath.

"Remember that time when you said I had got you wrong?"

His eyes moved over me, but he stayed facing the cupboards while scratching at a food stain. He hummed a confirmation.

"Well I did didn't I? You were right, I made you too perfect, yes?"

"Why doubt yourself after all this time, John?" His brow had quirked upwards. "I thought you enjoyed this arrangement."

"I do, believe me I _do_, but it's starting to feel like I've tainted something, do you understand?"

The kettle was hissing violently when out of nowhere, Sherlock grabbed my arm. His eyes were imbued with an animalistic furor I had never imagined from him. "Oh, perfection isn't good enough, is that it? You want me to become the monster your friends describe me as? If that is what you want I _shall not disappoint you_." I thought his grip might shatter my bones with the pain screaming through my shoulder.

"Sherlock- let go of me!"

He vanished. I held my arm as the throbbing died and shot my gaze over every inch of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry John."

And there he was by the door, looking at the floor like an ashamed child. It seemed like the moment had passed, and I relaxed, bringing my attention back to the cooker and taking the kettle off the heat.

"So... Mary. When are you seeing her again?"

"Tonight."

He nodded with his lips pursed in thought. "You're proposing to her."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I poured my tea and sighed. "Because I love her."

I listened with pricked ears to his slow exhale.

"That's a shame. Because she's already married."

I placed my mug patiently back down. "Don't tell me that."

"Well I'm afraid it's true."

"No, you don't get to say things like that anymore! You are dead, okay, so this whole deduction thing is _fake_! You don't even have a _brain_!" My fist found the tabletop, and uncleaned plates chinked with cutlery. He watched the movement of my hand with a blank face.

"I know I don't. You deduced it yourself, John. You're not an idiot. Well..." He smirked sarcastically. "Maybe you are."

I put my face in my hand in hopeless bewilderment. "Why the hell are you still here?"

_And what happened to all the kindness you've been showing? _

"You need me. You can't function without me. You're not part of real life anymore, or did you forget that?" He giggled. "Also I'm here to make sure you don't go off and marry some whore."

I must have reached for him in a sudden burst of rage. The world went grey around me as my focus latched to the apparition before me. Yet with all my will to hit the man, I somehow missed my footing and was thrown backwards ungracefully. Heat swelled at the top of my head where it met the cupboard door handle, and my sight was only a ring of searing light and blue and red dots. Sherlock's blurred face appeared among all of that, and behind a wall of buzzing noise his voice echoed like a call across the Universe.

"_John, come on! That's it, come with me. We can be together properly if you die now_."

The darkness rolled in like a wave, forcing my conscience to drown in horrified delirium.

* * *

**Okay... I need to up the rating on this. Things are gonna get real. (Or are they? Oh I'm so funny). **

**I realize that everything is rather confusing at the moment but to be absolutely honest- It's going to get worse. But don't worry because (hopefully) it will all make sense over the next few chapters. **

**Love you all, and the serenading thing still stands. Nighty night my dears. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A wild chapter appears!**

**Seriously this came out of nowhere. I was brushing my teeth and BAM. I nearly fell over. It was awesome. Basically, I was trying to find a way to get around a certain plot hole which you will not hear about because mwahaha spoilers, and this idea blossomed like nothin' I ever saw. **

**I feel like I should accept questions now. If you're confused about Sherlock's attitude, and I mean real Sherlock, you can ask. I know he seems OOC but I'm willing to explain myself if you don't get it already. Won't say a word about Johnny, I'm afraid, so I'll leave you to your deductions.**

**On a side note, I would point you in the direction of every Muse song ever, because that's what I listen to to keep my feels for this story intact. "Sing for Absolution" fits with this chappy. Later on in the fic, "Falling Away With You" and "Map of Your Head" will fit wonderfully. "Man of Mystery" draws everything together nicely. **

**I love Muse, okay?**

**ALSO MYCROFT WOOP**

* * *

My home, a grand and majestic piece of architecture and design, hummed with activity. It baffled Sherlock somewhat, which in and of itself was unnerving. I imagine the introduction of various pieces of medical equipment into the back lounge seemed rather of place, surrounded by the... Less than humble interiors of my home.

"Sir, our visitor has arrived. Shall we escort him inside?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted to the suited man standing in the dining room doorway. Curiosity was clear from how his brow creased and his lips pursed subtly.

"Thank you Stephen, please do so at once." I turned to my brother abruptly once my associate had left.

"This visitor is not to be disturbed, Sherlock. Do not let your presence become known to him. This is an exceedingly delicate matter, brother, and if you blindly interrupt anything, you will face dire consequences. Understood?"

He nodded and munched loudly on the peas in his mouth to emphasise his sincerity.

I left him to his meal (I should not have been worried that he was actually eating but nonetheless, there we have it) and walked briskly to greet my guest.

The paramedics were attempting to keep him awake, as I had expected. The bleeding had stopped, but the concussion was still causing problems. I overlooked his handling and care, and once the medics were satisfied, I took their place at the side of the sofa whereupon he had been deposited. His eyes were hooded when he shifted to look at me.

"Shit. What have I done to deserve this?"

An expected response, I supposed.

"Long time no see, Doctor Watson. We have quite a lot to discuss."

"Nooooo we don't. I'm going. Right now, goodbye!" He made to swing his legs over to stand up, but lurched back from dizziness.

"I'm afraid you are in no condition to leave, my good man. Now," I routed through an inner pocket for my phone and brought up a video, and presented it. "This has caught my attention. There are seventy three surveillance videos similar to this."

His face contorted in disgust at what I was showing him. "I am concerned to say the least."

His voice echoed slightly through the speakers, eerie in the extreme.

_"That was wonderful; Bach?_

_"Seriously? Impressive._

_"Yeah, go on. I'm feeling adventurous._

_"Uh, I couldn't agree more._

_"Are you sure? Lestrade seems to know what he's doing. _

_" Wow. Okay, forget I said anything. I mean... Whoa. _

_"Are you making me tea or not? _

_"He- Hello? _

_"Damn it..." _

John's expression spoke of both fascination and horror.

"Why the hell do you have this? On your _phone_, Jesus Christ..."

I pocketed the device without taking an eye off his face. "To prove to you that you need my help. Now tell me if you will, is it simply insanity, or is it drugs? I did not take the liberty of having you tested for questionable substances, as I assumed you would not take kindly to such an intrusion."

"I'm not doing _drugs. _And yeah, I damn well wouldn't allow tests. I don't need your help Mycroft; I'm not a child. I can handle this on my own."

"It is not wise to face grief alone."

He positively snarled.

"What would you know? You can't possibly be grieving, considering you _caused his death in the first_ _place_! You have no right to tell me how I should feel, because you've royally fucked everything up already, and I don't need you screwing with my head as well!"

Well. That was unpleasant.

"John-"

"Piss off." With that, he rolled over to face the back of the couch, and I took that as my cue to leave.

"I am sorry, John."

oOoOoOoOo

'It's time to wake up, John. Time to wake uuuuup!"

My eyelids gradually parted as I attempted to get used to the flickering yellow light of the fire. Only a couple of hours sleep, then. Brilliant.

"Hello stranger. Good sleep?"

Sherlock was perched at the end of the couch, staring at me with wide, curious eyes and an open-mouthed grin. I was instantly reminded of a vulture. His expression- he looked like he wanted to eat me alive.

I never screamed so loud in my life.

oOoOoOoOo

I decided that Mycroft's house at night was unpleasant. The building in daylight was bad enough, but add darkness and quiet into the equation and it develops this ominous atmosphere. Very unscientific, but unquestionably true.

I was awoken by a scream, muffled by the distance between its owner and myself. No matter how "delicate" this situation with the stranger was, I could hardly have him screaming the house down.

As I drew closer to the room in which our visitor resided, the scream was accompanied with whimpers and pained moans. I strained my ears to make out what he was so frightened of- perhaps an intruder? I pressed my ear to the thick oaken door and held my breath at what I heard.

"What happened to you? How could you, how could you just change like that? You wanted me to die, how could I not be upset? I am _terrified_ of you! No- nononono stop it, STOP IT!"

The words morphed into sobs and any words that followed were unclear.

He has put his head in his hands or blanket, sign of frustration and/or distress. Subject requires emotional support/stability/comfort. Behaviour towards strangers in such circumstances includes awkward rubbing on the back, a grasp of the shoulder, a meaningless acknowledgement of sympathy.

I knocked before entering, and slowly opened the door. He appeared absolutely focused on not looking anywhere other than the wool blanket he had thrown over himself as a makeshift bed. From the doorway I could only get a glimpse of his short ashen hair and the way he leaned forward in apparent agony.

"Sorry, are you alright? You're making a bit of a racket is all, you woke me up-"

"Stay away from me!" His gaze had snapped sideways in my direction the moment I opened my mouth, and suddenly he was standing, backing away to the fireplace and reaching for the poker.

"You changed again, don't think you can fool me!"

"I don't unstersta-"

He brandished the poker with both hands, searching for purchase on the twisted base, eyes wide and filling with tears. "I said STAY AWAY! YOU AREN'T MY SHERLOCK!"

I faltered, stepping back the way I came before he tried anything. I almost ran back to my room.

_Not my Sherlock._

_Not. My. Sherlock._

_My Sherlock. _

"_My." Possessive pronoun. This man knows me. Yet he fears me? Trauma. This man and I have history. I must have done something terrible to elicit such an emotional response, but what? _

_This man was important. This man _is_ important. I... Have an overwhelming desire to see him smiling, not crying. _

_Mycroft is keeping too much in the dark. _


End file.
